


Burdened With Affection

by LittleSammy



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/pseuds/LittleSammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Talking about things can be too hard at times, especially when you need to cope with the world going up in flames around you. But spelling it out still helps, and so this is what they do.<br/>Continuation of season nine's finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burdened With Affection

**Author's Note:**

> **notes & warnings: ** Fictitious continuation of the situation they have found themselves in at the end of last season. Spoilers for the season nine finale, everything else happened in my head.  
> Sensual -- yes, very. Explicit -- no. I wanted to, but then it didn't feel quite right, and their emotions got in the way. Sorry about that. In the end, I have very deep affection for this story, but it turned out nothing like I first imagined it.  
>  **comments & feedback: ** Very much appreciated. ♥

Three words were what started it. Three words, quite harmless and innocent on their own and not even uttered aloud. Not the three words that were the cliché of countless movies and books, even. And yet, they did set events into motion that would change things for them irrevocably.

*** *** ***

He remembered fragments and pieces of it. Like the force of the impact, or Ziva's not-weight, still slamming him into the wall harder than the explosion on its own. He didn't remember the moment where he hit his head, but he clearly recalled the wooziness that came afterwards, which was ironic in itself. And the warm blood running down his neck. That one was kinda hard to shake.

A lot of the actual rescue was a big, fat blur, too, and that sucked because Ziva had already started to make up ridiculous stories about what he had supposedly said and done in that elevator, and he had no actual memory to disclaim them. He still was weirdly sure there hadn't been all that many words between them. He knew she'd said his name a few times, and there had been one moment where she'd mumbled something he could never piece together later, but always desperately wanted to because it had seemed important at the time. 

Other than that, there hadn't been all that much talk between them during what he later learned had been almost three hours of waiting to be dug out of that elevator. But something that remained as sharp and clear in his mind as the sunshine on a crisp spring day was her touch, because it never left him for long, from the moment she first checked out his bumped head.

He was pretty sure she hadn't even been aware of it for the most part. But he had felt it, all the time. Every little tap of her fingers, every reassuring stroke down his back. And every tangle of hands, which may or may not have happened only in his head, even though he was pretty sure he could never dream up the brush of her skin against his as vividly as that memory felt.

He had vague recollections of telling her how tired he was at one point, and he'd felt her thigh muscles shift underneath his cheek. (And that had been the moment where he'd realized that his head had been in her lap and that weirdly comforting sensation turned out to be her hand on his forehead.) He remembered how she told him to stay awake and he'd had to ask her twice to repeat it because his befuddled brain kept losing the order as soon as it registered.

She'd said his name once more then, and he remembered just blinking idly at the ceiling without mustering up any true reaction.

"I'm sorry," he'd admitted at one point, lost in a silverish haze. "What did you want me to do?"

She'd stared down at him with a grim frown and her hair all over the place, and he remembered how he'd tried to smile around the throbbing in his head to cheer her up. (Because he knew she liked it when he smiled at her. She always tried to play it like it didn't matter, but it did, and there weren't many times when she hadn't smiled back at him.)

He'd lost track of things when she'd started searching for something in her pockets. It had turned out to be her pen, and when she'd taken his hand, he'd had a brief flash of her jamming the pen into his palm, because yeah, _that_ would have kept him awake.

But no, she hadn't done that. She'd just scribbled something into his palm and then let go of him again.

" _Stay with me_ ," the words had read, in her neat, familiar handwriting. Only it had been a little less neat this time because even Ziva David could be rattled.

He'd stared at the simple words for a long time before he'd replied, "I saw a movie like that once." His voice had been a little sluggish while he'd blinked and stared at his palm while the words had blurred and un-blurred in front of his eyes.

"Of course you did."

Her voice had been weirdly affectionate (and he'd only realized that part in retrospect) but the section of his brain wired to take offense still had had to rise to the occasion. "Hey, you would like that one. It's one hundred and twenty-six minutes of people writing poetry on each other's skin. Just your thing."

She'd given him a tiny snort then, and he'd grinned, satisfied that his attempt at distraction had worked just fine. He'd turned his head on her thigh so the aching spot got a little less pressure, and when her hand had touched his forehead briefly, he'd hummed and turned into the touch. (He wouldn't have if he'd really been awake. But at that time he hadn't given it enough thought, and so he'd simply enjoyed the touch and voiced his appreciation while his eyes had gotten heavier with every second.)

"You can't remember to stay awake, but you remember the exact length of a movie you saw years ago."

"It was really sexy."

And that was really all he remembered from those hours. Except, maybe, the way her fingers had kept running through his hair while he had kept bleeding on her pants. But maybe he'd just imagined that part.

*** *** ***

Her heart skipped a beat or two when she found his hospital bed empty, and it took her a moment to process that he had merely wandered off even though the doctors had told him in clear words to stay put and get some rest.

She found him outside Abby's room, of course, staring through the glass window and watching their black sister. He looked lost and confused, and that was only partly an effect of the hospital gown and the messed-up hair. She said his name softly, and when he didn't react at first, she walked over to stand by his side.

"You're supposed to be in bed."

He stirred and took a slow breath. "I couldn't just lie there and do nothing," he said and shot her a quick glance.

Ziva, in turn, frowned at him, tilting her head. "So that's why you're standing here doing nothing?"

His jaw clenched, and she knew him well enough to know it wasn't real anger that flared up in his eyes. It was merely a heady brew of guilt, because that's how Tony worked -- even though he couldn't have done anything to prevent this, he willingly took the burden of blame upon his own shoulders. She'd seen him do that before -- several times, really -- but it had rarely been this obvious.

"It's not fair," he murmured, and tension rippled through his body as he forced the words out. For a brief moment Ziva stopped fighting her impulses and reached out for him. He didn't flinch or pull back, but his muscles jumped under her palm when she touched his back, as if he wanted to run.

"No, it's not," she agreed softly. Her hand developed a life of its own and started moving in slow circles on his back. She wasn't sure if he even noticed that she was trying to calm him down, but she didn't care. Right now, it wasn't just him who needed this. "It's also not your fault."

He didn't reply, just turned his head back to stare at Abby again. She looked so unfamiliar, with the swollen cuts in her pretty face and the right side of her head shorn after surgery. They'd patched her up enough that she was out of immediate danger, and -- knowing Abby -- she'd probably bounce back and be on her feet again well before the others, but it was still unsettling to see her like this. Fragile, wounded. Mortal.

Gibbs sat beside her bed, of course. He was barely in better shape than Abby, and his face showed the same deep cuts from the bulletproof glass of the lab's windows shattered by the explosion. He still sat silent vigil, his hand covering Abby's on the crisp hospital sheets. It was frighteningly easy to see -- at least to Ziva -- that he felt just as guilty as Tony did.

She'd checked up on McGee on her way to Tony's room. For now, the Probie was asleep and on his way to recovery, but that knowledge didn't make it any easier to look at her friend's waxen face. Yes, sometimes she understood why Tony had issues with feeling helpless.

"Come with me, Tony. Get some rest."

He stirred and flexed his fingers, and that sent yet another palpable ripple through him. Then he glanced down at his palm. The words she had written were smudged by now, and the ink, diluted by sweat, had spread out and merged with the texture of his skin.

He nodded eventually, though, as if the visual reminder still worked for him.

*** *** ***

Of course he insisted on coming to work the next day, just as she insisted on kicking him out again after barely an hour because he obviously _wasn't_ well enough. He couldn't hide the massive headache from her that left him all narrow-eyed and tense and with his concentration all over the place.

And there wasn't all that much he could do anyway. The office looked like a disaster zone. Their desks still stood where they had always been, but that was pretty much all that remained. Phone lines were dead, their computers rendered useless if they weren't destroyed. CGIS had offered them use of their facilities, even though they were limited, and Vance had gladly accepted the offer and sent over a few people. But that didn't change the fact that NCIS was flat on its back for now, both when it came to agents and resources.

*** *** ***

She hadn't really expected him to stay home and twiddle his thumbs. He'd never been good at that, especially when he wanted to help and couldn't. It always rendered him restless like a child with attention deficit disorder.

She knew all that. And yet, it surprised her when she got the call.

Tony's number, but she didn't recognize the voice. It turned out to be a barkeeper in a club she'd never been to, asking her if she could pick up her partner because he was dead drunk by now and refused to stop and settle for a cab.

She forced a confirmation through clenched teeth, even though she was tempted for a heartbeat to just say no. She wasn't his babysitter, and he was most certainly a grown man.

But then she sighed and rubbed the tense spot between her eyebrows. If she left Tony to deal with this on his own, he would do it like he always did -- half-assed, angry, neither here nor there. Not getting anywhere. He'd been obsessive-destructive so often now that part of her was tired of picking up the pieces. The far bigger part had no say in the matter, though. She simply cared too much about that insecure, silly man. She'd never be able to turn her back on him when he needed her. Not in a million years.

*** *** ***

He was completely wasted by the time she arrived to scoop him up, and for a moment she was afraid she would have to deal with the uninhibited side of his joker self. She'd seen that in action a few times before, and it was fun in its own way. Tonight, though, she wasn't equipped to deal with sloppy innuendo and possibly wandering hands. Tonight, she felt just a touch too vulnerable for that.

It turned out Tony wasn't in the mood for silliness either. The look he gave her, all dark and with a heavy anger swirling in his green eyes, told her that it was a small wonder he hadn't gotten into a brawl yet. His pupils were wide, and she wondered if that was just because the place was so poorly lit or if he was still loaded with painkillers. If he'd been stupid enough to drink like that while he was still high...

Then again, it would be just like him to not take them. Yet another form of self-induced punishment.

"Ziva," he slurred and raised his glass to her, even though it contained only slowly melting ice cubes at this point. She had made sure the bartender would cut him off after the phone call. "Come to be my strong shoulder in a sea of bourbon?"

"I've come to take you home," she replied quietly. The corner of his mouth twitched, and for some reason the trace of anger in his eyes died down abruptly at her words. He suddenly looked like a lost puppy.

"Oh," he said and raised a hand to rub his face. "Yeah, okay."

*** *** ***

She half expected him to fall asleep as soon as he buckled up, and so she already began to make plans on how to get him out of the car again and up to his apartment while he staggered towards her car. In the end she didn't need any tricks, though. His anger came back easily, and the lost puppy gave way to a depressed terrier grinding its teeth.

"It's not fair," he said, and these words would turn out to be his only words on the ride home. Ziva agreed, but there was still nothing either of them could do about it.

*** *** ***

The unhealthy anger ran out of him once she had maneuvered him upstairs and into his living room. Frustration suddenly showed on his face instead, and he looked at her, helpless, as if he had forgotten the next logical step.

And she knew how he felt. She really did. She merely had a little more experience in having her world turned upside down than Tony.

Eventually she sighed and told him to take off his shoes. He obeyed quietly, and he didn't put up a fight when she led him to his bedroom and started to take off his jacket. She expected something innuendo-laden when she moved on to his shirt, but he just looked at her, his eyes focused on something that wasn't her. It left her vaguely scared. She'd rarely seen him lost this deep in his own head.

He managed the pants on his own, thankfully, but she still waited until he sat down at the edge of the bed and she could be reasonably sure he wouldn't end up on the floor or crack his head on the nightstand. 

And then, just when she had convinced herself that now was a good time to leave, he raised his chin to look at her, as if he only now realized that she was here, with him, in his apartment. 

He'd gotten lost again on the way. She could see that so clearly that it squeezed her heart a little, and she couldn't really fight the urge that made her step closer and run a hand through his rebellious hair. A soft tremble went through him at the touch, and for a moment she got sidetracked by the overwhelming sensation of familiarity. It felt too natural to touch him, really.

"We were incredibly lucky, Tony," she murmured, even though she wasn't sure he'd hear her, much less remember it in the morning. "All of us are alive. Be thankful."

Another shudder ran through him at her words, and Ziva's pulse jumped irrationally because for a second she was sure he'd wrap his arms around her now and bury his head in her stomach, much like men in the movies sometimes did.

Tony didn't. He just kept staring at her. But it seemed like an effort on his part, and that was the moment when Ziva suddenly felt like stomping her feet in frustration. Because this really wasn't fair. Because he needed this right now, and yes, some part of her needed it, too -- badly, even. And yet, they couldn't, because they weren't that kind of partners. The kind that hugged for comfort.

He still looked so confused that her heart stuttered and stumbled a little more. His eyes were wide and fixed on her face, and her breath was shaky by the time she drew her hand back. She wasn't exactly sure what went on in his head right now, but it didn't seem like a good idea to keep touching him. Not while he looked at her as if she had just turned into the light at the end of a very long tunnel.

She tried to step back, out of the little circle of intimacy they had created. She didn't get very far, though -- he reached for her hand before she could pull away completely. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sensation of his fingers closing around her wrist, and she froze, like she often did when he was the one to touch her unexpectedly. (She really hadn't gotten any better at this over the years. He still managed to throw her off and get under her skin every single time, on a level he'd probably never planned on. And if she were truthful with herself, it was a level hardly anyone else in her life had ever reached.)

His fingers pressed into her wrist, just a little. Just enough to keep her close. She knew he could feel her racing pulse in his fingertips. She saw it in the way he suddenly looked at her -- bemused, curious, and just the slightest bit fascinated by her urge to flee. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but just like Tony, she couldn't form the words to make sense of that distracting rush of intimacy.

He kept his grip on her wrist, even while he tried to say something (and failed miserably), and that did nothing to ease her confusion. Eventually, he stirred and moved as if he wanted to pat his pockets for a pen. It took him a moment to remember that he was already down to his boxers, and that moment of befuddlement distracted Ziva even more and softened the walls around her confused heart enough that she jumped, shocked, when he pulled her closer and reached for her instead. 

It wasn't the closeness she minded. She never had, because most of the time being close to him felt good. Natural, even. But sometimes it made things a little harder -- especially in times like these, when she was, despite her nature, drowning in the urge to hug him until they both felt better. Safer.

She frowned when he didn't drag her into an embrace after all, but went for the pocket of her jacket. After a slightly uncoordinated search he found her pen and clicked it while leaned over her hand to scribble something into her palm, much like she had done to him the day before. Then he finally let go of her wrist and tucked the pen back into her pocket while she raised her hand to read the chicken scratches that spelled _'thank you'_.

He didn't look at her, and that was probably a good thing because her heart pounded like a jackhammer. She knew that her face, flushed, would have given too much away, because she couldn't swallow around that lump in her throat, and she couldn't get her wayward emotions under control, no matter how hard she tried. In the end, she lost the fight: she ran her hand through his hair again, and before she could stop herself, she stepped even closer than before and pressed her lips to the top of his head. It was a brief touch, barely begun before it was over already. But it seemed enough, because she could feel some of the unhealthy tension seep out of him.

"We'll be fine," she murmured, and he raised his chin and looked at her. A curious expression chased away the earlier ache.

It was hard to step back, Ziva had to admit that. She'd never wanted to just curl up with someone for the sheer comfort of it so badly before. And yes, closing the door of his apartment from the outside took a much bigger effort tonight than it usually did.

*** *** ***

The next day, despite being frustrating on a whole new level, went by as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button. They had rarely been as busy with following clues that led them nowhere, chasing after witnesses that had vanished into thin air, only to catch up with them and find they suffered from inexplicable loss of memory. It did keep them on their toes and on the phone for the better part of the day, though, and Ziva was glad about that because it also kept Tony's mind from straying too far.

He'd pulled himself together hard this time. His shirt was immaculate, and his hair was done in the way that always left her wondering just how long he had fussed with it in the morning. He made the expected inappropriate remarks, he snarked at people in much the same way he usually did, and for all the world he seemed like he hadn't been rattled by the terrible attack at all.

But since Ziva knew him a little better than all the world, she also noticed the shadows under his eyes and the way his smiles never seemed to be quite right.

*** *** ***

They paid their team another visit in the hospital later that night, when Vance had sent them home because there simply wasn't anything left they could do.

This time, a very pale McGee had joined Gibbs's vigil at their favorite's bed. The doctors weren't too pleased with it, but short of sedating their patients there wasn't much they could do about it. Sometimes, the bonds of their replacement family were a lot stronger than common sense.

Abby was not only awake this time -- she was weirdly excited about the fact that she had brushed death this close. She'd always dealt with situations like these badly before, and it confused Ziva to see how different she behaved this time: she chatted excitedly about the shard of glass that had ripped a chunk out of her right eyebrow and how cool a scar it would leave. And she already had plans to utilize the remnants of her surgery and go for a sidecut and just one pigtail from now on, maybe even get a new tattoo around the inevitable scar on the side of her skull.

And that was when Ziva realized all of this was probably cathartic to Abby.

They _had_ lost friends and co-workers in that horrible attack, yes -- but through some minor twist of fate none of _them_ had been lost, and that, to Abby, called for a celebration.

Her enthusiasm almost dragged Ziva along, who even ended up giggling at some point. The amusement lasted only until she glanced at Tony, though, who had an amiable smile plastered all over his face and was closer to putting his fist through the nearest wall than she had ever seen him.

*** *** ***

She caught up with him in the parking lot, when his pleasant mask had already fallen and the darkness was back in his eyes. He didn't reply when she said his name, just looked at her with that same guilt and pain flitting across his face she had seen the night before.

She wanted to tell him to go easy on himself, because it _hadn't_ been his fault. They'd been tricked, they'd been played, they'd been sieged, and there was nothing any of them could have done to prevent this.

That's what she would have liked to tell him. But the clever words wouldn't come, and the weight of his stare wouldn't lessen.

In the end, she settled for taking out her pen again. Something shifted in his face as she reached for his hand, and for a second he looked as if he wanted to evade her touch because it would be too much to handle right now. Ziva just looked at him, though, until he breathed out and forced himself to relax.

This time, she wrote her reminder across his wrist. She wasn't sure why, except that it felt important and she didn't want him to wash it off the next time he went to the bathroom. And it seemed a little more personal to leave it there. Easier to hide underneath a sleeve, too.

And yes, it was distracting to turn and almost rest her back against his chest, just so she could jot down her words in a way that would be easy to read later and not upside down. It was even more distracting how effortlessly he went along with the motion, like he always did these days. How his arm bent a little, and how it felt like he was about to draw her closer any second.

It seemed like the natural progression, almost: fall into his embrace, let him surround her, hold her. She'd fought the impulse before -- too many times to remember, really -- but it had rarely been this hard. This tempting. Tonight, he suddenly was this huge, warm presence in her back, and he was just the tiniest bit too close this time to take it in stride. And his pulse was this nervous flutter underneath her thumb that spoke loudly of his own response to having her this close. 

It would be so incredibly easy to stop thinking now. To lean back against his chest and let things take their course. And they would, she knew that. Knew it from the way he leaned into her and breathed in her scent; how his body tensed up around her while he fought his own urges. He'd be a pushover tonight.

In the end, that was the very reason she neither pushed nor pulled. She finished her writing instead and then stepped away, out of his reach. Because doing this just because they both needed the comfort wouldn't be enough, and it would break more things than it would fix.

He blinked, as if he wasn't quite sure what had just happened between them. Confused, distracted, he lowered his eyes and stared at his wrist and the two words she had left there. _'Don't drink.'_

His frown eased up a little, and something else happened in his face then, something she couldn't quite place. He flexed his fingers, and Ziva watched the tendons in his wrist jump.

Eventually, he gave her a curt nod, and the look that accompanied it left her with her throat dry and her pulse pounding in her temples, because for a heartbeat she was sure he'd step closer now after all. Reach for her.

He didn't. But it seemed like an effort.

*** *** ***

He seemed better the next day. Not completely back to normal, no, but when he looked at her, she no longer saw the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Something else felt different, too. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but for some reason she was sure that more had happened during the last night. Not drinking, and most certainly not a random woman. (She'd know that in a heartbeat. She always had.) A hard round of introspective, maybe? She wasn't sure, but whatever it had been, it had left him a little more grounded than before. More mature.

He looked at her sideways once or twice during the day, and that felt different, too. He'd never looked at her quite like that before. Like she mattered.

*** *** ***

She didn't expect him that night. And yet, she wasn't surprised when she opened the door and he gave her a sheepish smile in the middle of the night.

She let him in, of course. She always had.

*** *** ***

He asked her soon if she maybe wanted to get dressed, and he got nervous in a sweet way when she merely shrugged because she saw no need for that. The wide button-down shirt she wore covered everything indecent, and he had seen a lot more of her body on other occasions, so she felt pragmatic enough to not throw on a pair of pants. If he couldn't deal with a bit of skin, that would be entirely his problem. (She would never admit, of course, that she enjoyed his apparent distraction. More than she probably should.)

He'd brought a movie -- the calligraphy one he'd told her about. It was such an obvious pretense that she cocked her head and stared at him until he squirmed.

"Look," he forced out eventually and raised his hand. Her words were still visible across his wrist, faded, but readable. She suddenly had a hunch that he had clung to them more than she'd thought he would. "This worked, okay?" A hint of a pause, and then he added, quietly, "At least last night."

Ziva blinked and stared at his hand, shocked by the admission in his words and the slight tremble in his fingers.

"Sit," she said and took the DVD from him. It was hard not to react to the almost palpable relief he suddenly radiated.

*** *** ***

He didn't care about the movie at all. His gaze drifted off the screen every other minute, until he finally abandoned the feeble excuse altogether and simply stared at his partner with an intensity she wasn't used from him.

She turned her head at one point and stared back because usually that was enough to rein him back in. But unlike the Tony she was used to, this one didn't back off. This one met her eyes and looked at her until her stomach churned with butterflies, unexpected, and almost uncomfortable. Almost.

"Why are you really here?"

He didn't flinch at the question, but he did look away and gave her the awkward school boy's grin that usually meant he was looking for a fast way out before he got in trouble. "I'm not sure."

"Tony."

He squirmed and refused to look at her, and Ziva wasn't sure what was going on now. He looked so lost all of a sudden -- not just in his thoughts, but in general. If she were Abby, she'd have reached out for him then and hugged him. But she wasn't, and so she had no idea how to comfort him in his distress except with clear words that would sound harsh and wouldn't be appropriate.

She leaned closer when he shifted more, as if he were about to get up and run any second now, and he froze, caught in the act of almost-flight. 

"Why am I here," he repeated, and his voice sounded breathless under the slightly panicked laugh. "Because I'm a masochist."

She blinked and waited for an explanation that never came. "You do seem to be a glutton for punishment sometimes, yes..." she finally offered hesitantly, the hint of a smile tearing at her mouth to take the sting out of the words. He mirrored her almost-smile out of reflex, and that was when she reached out and touched his arm after all. Far from a hug, and far from what she wanted to give, but still enough to get under his skin and loosen the unhealthy tension.

"That's one way of putting it." He laughed and fell back against the couch. Looked at her, still lost in thought, still on the brink of something she couldn't figure out yet. Her confusion must have shown then because he raised his hand and put it over hers on his arm. 

This time Ziva flinched, and he felt it, but didn't let go. He took her hand instead and curled his fingers into her palm. His thumb rubbed her skin gently, and just like that, she lost her train of thought. Lost herself in the sensation of his touch. Unexpected, unfamiliar -- at least if he touched her like this. Like it was meant as a caress. She wasn't sure how to deal with this kind of touch, coming from him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ewan McGregor take the lead actress's arm to jot his character's name in uneven letters onto her skin, and for some reason that made Ziva nervous. And Tony noticed that, too. She could feel it in the way he glanced at the screen and then back at her. She could feel him _think_. She'd been with him often enough while he had put the pieces of a puzzle together.

"I think Abby was right," he murmured, and her eyes flicked up to meet his. He looked so serious all of a sudden. "We need to make more out of what we have."

His thumb moved up her wrist, and her pulse jumped, and her heartbeat thundered through her veins. Because this touch wasn't accidental at all. And it was intimate enough that goose bumps spread from it and raced up her arm while he still watched her curiously. Watched her reaction for a clue on how to proceed.

She stared at his mouth because meeting his eyes was too hard all of a sudden. He was simply too close tonight to take all of this in stride, and she had no idea how to deal with the sudden, confusing turmoil he drew out of her. 

He really was too close. And his scent was distracting, too. So warm and spicy that her mind flipped back and forth between visual and olfactory triggers. She wasn't sure which affected her worse tonight, but all of them left her confused and with the desire to press her face into his neck, just for the simple joy that would bring.

She'd dealt with that kind of urge before -- and dealing with it usually meant ignoring it and fighting it down until the rush of feelings went away. But tonight she had a hard time doing that, because she had never seen him look at her quite like this: willingly vulnerable, and splitting himself wide open to her. _For_ her.

He must have seen some of her struggle, because something in his own expression shifted, as if he had just come to a decision. He closed his fingers around her wrist and dragged her arm closer, halfway across his lap.

She should have felt nervous when he pulled the marker out of his pocket. And part of her was, yes, because things were suddenly shifting, moving -- forward, probably, because Tony still looked so serious and intense. She didn't flinch though when he put the marker to the soft skin on the inside of her forearm. (She'd seen that one before, when Abby had given her a fake tattoo last Halloween, because this kind of marker washed off skin easily and without a trace.) But her breath came even faster, simply because he leaned into her now, and her skin, just as aware of him as the rest of her, rose in more goose bumps under the words he wrote. 

He shifted closer, crossing more boundaries, personal, conventional, and her lips parted as if she wanted to protest. Yes, somehow she actually wanted to do that -- wanted to tell him to back off because he had no business touching her like that. Except that she had missed her window for that, and now he was right there, right in her space, and right on her skin. Getting right under it.

His hand trembled when he finished the sentence, and that's how she knew he wasn't done yet. The distress and indecision in him was too palpable, and he was too close for her to ignore it. She'd never been too good at that before, but now, with him hovering over her like this, almost as if he'd lean even closer any moment now, close enough to--

She bit back a gasp when he set the marker down again and quickly added another line, scribbling as fast as he could. As if it took all of his courage to put these words out there.

And he didn't move away from her after that. He stayed as close as he had been before, with his left hand under her wrist as if to support it and his pretty mouth close enough that she could have kissed him so easily. Too easily, really. Too tempting for her own good.

He didn't look at her, though, and that, again, was the one thing that saved her for now. For a while, at least, because eventually she had to read what he had written.

_'I'm here because I can't help it. Because I want you. But you only want the guys who aren't me.'_

She blinked. The words blurred and melted into each other, and for a second she wasn't sure if that was just because she was so tired or if she'd really start to cry now. It seemed outlandish. In seven years, he'd done a lot of things to her, but he had been the one person who'd never made her cry.

"You're an idiot," she pressed out through gritted teeth. A wave of surprise rolled through him, and that was when it got too much for her. Too much closeness, too many confessions. And too many emotions to deal with.

And so Ziva did the one thing she usually did when she felt overwhelmed: she ran.

*** *** ***

He followed her into the kitchen just when she lost the fight and a tear rolled down her cheek after all. She could tell it shocked him, from the way he stopped dead in his tracks and just watched her, quietly, cautiously.

Her grip tightened around the edge of the sink. His gaze was heavy on her, and she could feel the turmoil in him, even halfway across the room, because that was just how they worked. She still couldn't look at him, though. Not yet. Not while she was still ripped open and bare and wanted nothing more than to believe in what he had just written on her skin. 

Which she wouldn't do. Because Ziva David wasn't a needy girl. She didn't fall into any man's arms just because he said a few nice things that would be all but forgotten in the morning.

He cleared his throat, and Ziva closed her eyes because she wasn't ready for this yet, but didn't know how to put it off. "I'm sorry," he said, and the tone of his voice stabbed her traitorous heart because there was the beaten puppy again. The one who would still be loyal to the death. "I shouldn't have said--"

It wasn't what she had expected, and she drew in a sharp breath before she could control the reaction. "Oh, don't you dare," she interrupted him harshly and whirled around to face him after all. "Don't you _dare_ say you didn't mean it. You don't have that right."

He blinked, confused and thrown off track. "What?" A frown drew his brows together as he took a step towards her, and the way he looked at her left her wondering which one of them had really gotten it wrong. But it was too late now to keep her emotions in check. 

"You heard me," she snarled, her lips drawing back in anger. "You don't have the right to throw this at me and then back out again just because you're getting cold feet. You just don't." She tried to stop the words from pouring out of her mouth, but he'd gotten under her skin too deep tonight, and Ziva found that she had finally reached the point where she could no longer pretend she'd never felt anything for him. Not this time. Not when all the anger and hurt and frustration piled up over the years wanted out so desperately. "I mean, look at you! You can't even do this with a permanent marker, and you still think you can just take me out like an old reliable toy whenever you want, and then just stuff me back into my--"

"Can I kiss you?"

The question, quietly uttered, knocked the wind out of her, and her eyes widened impossibly. 

"What?"

He didn't hesitate; he merely repeated the words, slowly, enunciating each one carefully, and yes, she understood them perfectly. They didn't make any more sense, though, especially since his expression was so dead serious now. Meeting his eyes sent a shiver down her naked thighs, and all of a sudden she felt exposed -- vulnerable. She'd never seen him look at her quite like this before: intense, with all of his anger and repressed emotions bundled up into one fierce look that stripped her emotions bare. It wasn't the kind of look she had ever associated with kissing someone. Never before.

"Yes." And it surprised her a bit how harsh from anger her voice was. Anger that, despite appearances, despite the mockery, despite all the other women, he'd felt something for _her_. And he'd kept that fact from her, for God knew how long.

His own reply was just as harsh, because her fury dragged him along now, like it always did. "Good," he spat out, and her chin rose in defiance when he stalked towards her. Her grip tightened around the edge of the sink involuntarily, and he saw it -- saw how both the question and the answer really sank in with her now. How her lips parted as if she wanted to object, to call back her agreement, but couldn't because she was suddenly at a loss for words. Her skin tightened in a rush of anticipation when he stopped in front of her and stared at her until her defenses crumbled under that heated look and her anger drained away and left her all weak. 

He saw that, too. The blatant rush of lust in his eyes was unmistakable.

She said his name, and it turned out to be hardly more than a nervous little gasp. He didn't react, really, just leaned the tiniest bit closer, and it shocked her deeply that this was almost enough to bridge the last of the gap between them. She hadn't realized he'd come this close. She could feel it now, though -- the sudden rush of warmth from him, the slide of his shirt against hers, and, oh God, his hands resting left and right from her, beside her hips, framing her body as if he wanted to keep her from running away. Which was silly, really. She couldn't have run right now if she'd wanted to. Supporting her own weight seemed like a chore.

She couldn't bring herself to stop staring at his mouth. It would be warm, too -- hot, even. She could tell that before he actually kissed her, from the way his breath fanned across her lips, and from the heat she felt radiating off him. Oh, he was so tempting. And the way he stood there like that, just looking at her and stubbornly holding her gaze, while he was already close enough to devour her... 

There was still anger seething underneath, though, and for some reason seeing this left her so deliciously weak that her breath caught in her throat when he finally leaned down to kiss her. It was the softest touch -- hardly more than a breath and some skin -- but still, she suddenly gripped the edge of the sink that much harder because she felt too weak to stay on her feet.

It was funny, really. Because this was the one thing where she would have expected him to be incredibly blunt and straightforward, and he wasn't, at first. He turned out to be almost gentle and deliciously hesitant, much like she would have been if first action had been up to her. And she knew it wasn't just because he was nervous. She knew he held back because, much like her, he wasn't sure yet where this was going or if it was even a good idea, and so he left her every possible opportunity to call this off. Because yes, much like her he had come to treasure the comfortable status quo of the past.

But, much like him, she had wondered about this for too long and too often by now, and so, in the end, she was the one whose lips parted and moved with a silent plea against his, brushing skin until his eyes fluttered shut and his body tensed up while he tried to keep in control of this. To stay at a distance and not crash into her yet.

It wasn't like he really had a chance, though. He'd come too close this time, and even this soft almost-kiss, barely there, turned out to be enough to settle things between them that hadn't even been an option in the morning. So yes, his mouth moved eventually, his lips catching on hers, and she couldn't help the gasp then, because it was both too much and not enough.

Oh, he was good. His lips knew their way around hers, as if he'd secretly studied the way she would like to be kissed for years. And now he wasn't even all that gentle anymore. He took her mouth as if he had every right to, and he sucked her tongue greedily until she made tiny, needy sounds against his busy lips.

And he tasted so good. So good she could get used to this.

Her head spun when he drew back eventually -- just an inch, barely enough to pull his lips from hers. He was breathless, too, and she felt him, his body, because he hadn't let go of her. His weight still pressed her into the counter; his thigh had wandered between hers at some point, and the way he shifted against her now left her flushed and with no doubt that, yes, he had enjoyed that very much. And to her great surprise Ziva found that she liked it a lot when he was shamelessly horny like that.

He laughed when heat flared up in her eyes at the thought, and the breathless sound betrayed his nervousness. His big hand cupped her cheek, and he suddenly looked at her all serious, brushing his thumb against her lips cautiously. As if this were just a pleasant dream. One that would shatter into a thousand pieces if he wasn't careful enough.

"I didn't... plan this," he murmured eventually. His voice was laced with more uncertainty and anxiety, and that spilled over and triggered panic in Ziva, too. Because suddenly she wasn't entirely sure if he was just hesitant or already looking for a way to back out before he'd really moved in.

No, he clearly hadn't planned this -- _any_ of this. She hadn't, either. She'd never even expected it. But now that things had been set into motion, she needed them to _keep_ moving.

"There are condoms in the bedroom," she found herself offering. And yes, she was close enough that she could easily tell how his body reared up at the suggestion. Tony kept staring at her with so many conflicting emotions flitting across his face, though, that for a heartbeat she wasn't entirely sure which way this experiment would go.

Then he laughed, suddenly, giving her a breathless little chuckle that sounded like he couldn't quite figure out what was going on here, but couldn't help liking it.

"What is this," he asked and brushed his smiling mouth against the corner of hers until she returned the ghost of a caress, " _'come to the Dark Side, we have cookies'_?"

"I got one cookie," she murmured and rubbed her hips against his until he bit back a moan and tried to get a grip on his traitorous body. 

"Dirty innuendo. Good, good."

"Tony."

" _'Shut up.'_ I know. I am."

*** *** ***

She couldn't stop touching him.

He was almost asleep by now, with his cheek against her belly and his arm slung heavily across her hip, and she had never been as confused in her entire life before, but touching him -- stroking his shoulders, running her hand through his hair until he hummed in tired appreciation... that was the one thing that still made sense, somehow.

She liked being with him like this. Maybe a little too much for her own good, because it had felt too... familiar, in a way. She couldn't remember ever making love like this before -- like friends, in a way, with all the trust in the world and years of it behind the act. And yet, despite the emotions involved, there had been nothing friendly about the way he'd taken this a step further and left her body soaring, focused solely on making this as good for her as possible. And she'd loved it, plain and simple. Because yes, they worked well together in every area, so this was no exception, and even though she'd cursed him a few times when he'd taken his sweet time with her, she had completely lost herself in the way he had worshipped her body tonight.

And yes, she'd had sex before, many times, but that part had felt new and confusing to her, too: just doing this, all of it, for the mere joy and intimacy it brought. Not for a job, or comfort, or taking off the edge, but rather because she... wanted it. Wanted the closeness, and the touches, and feeling his lips all over her skin. She wasn't used to sex like this -- giddy and high on emotion.

She also wasn't used to the side effects. To the many thoughts that spun around in her head now and left her even more confused than she'd been before. To wondering if this, as rewarding as it had been, was what she should have done. Because it could only be a matter of time now until he shifted away from her. It was what he did, after all.

Touching him made it better, though. Touching him made sense out of confusion; it grounded her and made this step seem like a solid idea after all. Because touching him felt natural, like a mere extension of what they'd had before. Like something she could keep, maybe.

He sighed and rubbed his cheek against her skin, and she spread her fingers across his shoulder in response, as if she wanted to calm him, just so he would stay like this, with her, for a little longer.

"You're thinking," he said. His voice sounded tired, and she wanted to shush him. Tell him go to sleep and get some rest, and they'd sort it all out tomorrow (or not, because maybe by tomorrow they'd start repressing it). She couldn't, though. She felt her pulse speed up, and her throat suddenly felt a little tighter than before. Her hand tightened on his back, and she could feel the change in his expression against her skin even before he propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. "Ziva? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied with an awkward shrug. Her eyes skittered all over the place because she couldn't really meet his. (Not while he looked at her like this. Like the big puppy she'd taken home before thinking through all the consequences.) With a sigh, she raised her other hand to rub the tight spot between her eyebrows. "I guess I'm just waiting for the other shoe to slip."

"Drop." He stared at her while the word rang between them. "You think we can't make this work?" She didn't reply right away, and his eyes widened slowly at whatever he saw in her face. "You think I don't _want_ to make this work."

She closed her eyes and said his name, but he pushed himself up and got out of the bed, shaking his head furiously. When she moved as if she wanted to get up, too, he whirled around and glared at her.

"No," he told her harshly, raising a finger at her like one would do with a disobedient dog. " _You_ stay right where you are. Don't you dare move a muscle." She swallowed hard and opened her mouth, but he didn't wait for her reaction and stormed off, naked, angry.

She heard him rummage around in the living room for a while, most likely looking for his clothes to get dressed. She couldn't help feeling like she had screwed this up, badly, and so she ended up with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms slung around them, trying her best to take slow, even breaths and not to let the awful emotions out that were tearing her apart all of a sudden.

She flinched when he came back, still naked, still angry, and for a heartbeat his grim expression actually scared her. Then he stood beside the bed and grabbed her ankle, pulling until she let go of her knees and fell back on the mattress. Her breath caught in her throat when he climbed back onto the bed. She had no idea what was going on, but she knew that right now would not be a good moment to fight him.

For a long while he lay half on top of her, with his hands framing her face while he searched her expression. The he suddenly did something she hadn't really expected, not after the last few minutes -- he kissed her, hard, as if he wanted to make a point. For a few endless moments she stayed like that -- shocked, frozen against him. Waiting for what would happen next. But then the kiss shifted subtly, suddenly laced with the tiniest hint of despair, and something inside her melted. And she couldn't help but react to his closeness and his warmth. His weight on top of her, too, pressing her into the sheets with that strength of his that had left her so deliciously weak earlier.

He drew back, and Ziva blinked, confused, still not sure what was going on. She tried to say something once more -- explain, maybe, or justify her reaction -- but he just raised his finger at her again until she gave in and settled back and watched him cautiously. He nodded, satisfied, and his gaze slid down her body, settling on her smooth belly. And then, when he raised his hand, she suddenly understood. 

He'd brought the marker. 

Her eyes flicked to the inside of her own forearm, to the traces of earlier confessions. Muddied and smudged by sweat and lust, but still there -- still legible enough that her heart fluttered all over, both from these words and the ones that were about to come.

He hesitated after all, felt tip poised against her skin, uncertain despite the heavy emotions driving him, and that was when Ziva suddenly longed to touch him again. Rub his back until the confusion and the anger went away and they were good again. It could be their copy of Abby's hugs -- their own private way of touching to make things right again. Tiny motions that would settle fights between them, merely by the promise of more touching -- of being close once more, once the fighting was over. Oh, how tempting in its simplicity that concept would be.

Then he breathed out slowly and started writing, all over her stomach this time. His script was a little less shaky and broader, as if he was writing this with all the conviction he could bring up.

 _'I'm not going to back out of this. I want this to work.'_

The shortest hesitation left his hands trembling after all, and once more she just wanted to reach out for him, just to ease his distress. But she didn't because he hadn't reached the end of his words yet, and if she interrupted him now, even for the pleasures of comfort, he probably wouldn't finish.

 _'And I want you to stop looking at other men and thinking about marrying them,_ he finally continued, even though his hand was shaking badly now. _Because I want to be in your life.'_

She blinked the fog of wetness out of her eyes while he underlined the 'I' with a final, swift stroke. There was still too much emotion swirling in his eyes while he put the cap back onto the marker -- the weirdest mix of anger, confusion, and hesitancy -- but his gaze was steady, and he held hers, adding in the softest voice she had ever heard from him, "I'm willing to repeat this anytime in permanent marker. I'd tattoo this on you, if that's what you want."

She bit her trembling lip, and he kept looking at her, kept judging her reactions until she felt too shaken and too weak to give him a good answer. And, just like he always did, he saw that, too, and something in his face softened while he raised the hand that held the marker and offered it to her. His eyes were still wide, swirling with too much emotion and vulnerability, but still, one of his eyebrows went up in a certain way that was halfway between encouraging and challenging.

She took his challenge, of course. She always had, and she always would. It was one of the things that made them much better together than they were on their own -- a partner who challenged them and left them striving for more.

He rolled off her and onto his back while Ziva was still not sure how to do this or what to say even. And strangely, in the end this was the very thing that made it all very easy: the look on his face while he waited for what she would do now. The trust that suddenly seemed limitless. The way he put his heart -- his whole being, really -- into her hands with just one simple gesture.

Her vision was clouded again when she leaned over him, by what other people would call tears about ready to fall. Ziva David wouldn't, of course, because Ziva David didn't cry (usually), and so she fought the rush of emotion down as hard as she could. She wasn't too successful, but at least her eyes stayed mostly dry.

 _'I have no desire to look at other men,'_ she wrote, along the curve of his hip because his chest wasn't good for this with all the hair. And yes, she did realize this was a somewhat dangerous spot to use because it distracted his attention from her words so easily and focused it sharply on the touch instead. Which may have been one reason why she had chosen this part of his body. Just to lessen the chance that he'd realize how big of a deal these words would actually be to her. _'Because I no longer want to settle for second best.'_

Her gamble didn't pay off, though. It was one of Tony's more dangerous traits -- he always paid attention when she least expected him to. And so he grabbed her face and kissed her before she could put the marker away. Her pulse shot through the roof when he rolled into her and dragged her closer until her skin melted into his and her breath hitched in her throat and it wasn't just him anymore who got distracted by this new, exhilarating kind of touch.

He pulled his mouth from hers just when she thought that they were done talking for now, and she was almost thankful for that. She had too many emotions spinning around inside her right now, and feeling him like this... it muddled all rational thought in her. She couldn't afford feeling like a teenager around him. But then he smiled and closed his eyes and put his forehead to hers, and she thought that maybe she wouldn't really have a chance there. 

"So we're good?" he asked, and after a few slow breaths and thoughts, she chuckled and slung her arm around his neck.

"I think we will be," she murmured back and turned her face so she could nuzzle his neck until he shivered. Oh, yes, she could already tell this was one of his favorite spots. Which wasn't bad, because she really liked to lick him there and suck his skin until he got all flustered and distracted. She'd done it earlier, and his response had been... rewarding. "So do we get to have sex now?"

His body jumped to sharp attention at the question, but he still drew back and looked at her with a perfect mockery of an inquiring look. "And why exactly should we have sex now, Agent David?"

It was a silly question, really. The rough note of his voice alone gave her all the reasoning ever necessary. But she still played along because she suddenly felt indulgent enough. 

"Well, we fought and made up," she listed in her best reasonable voice. "I've heard that's what people do afterwards. I'm not sure why, though. Maybe it's some sort of reward?"

"For fighting?" he grinned and ran his hand down her thigh.

"For making up."

"Ah," he nodded, but by then Ziva had enough of playing silly couple games and kissed him instead. Which seemed indeed like a pretty good reward.

*** *** ***

She knew that he thought she was already asleep. He'd stared at her long enough to make sure, which was precisely the reason why she felt it when he put the marker to her skin once more. No confessions this time, just a tiny symbol. Just a tiny heart, drawn over the beat of her own.

She felt like falling apart yet again when he pressed his lips to the spot he had just marked and then settled back down beside her, his arm curled around her waist, holding her close even while he tried not to wake her.

It wasn't hard to pretend to curl into his embrace and snuggle up to him in her sleep. She knew she'd probably do this quite often from now on. Because yes, touching him was a good thing. Touching him felt good, and touching him was a lifeline of sense in an ocean of emotional chaos.

Yes. She would probably spend a lot of time touching him.

*** *** ***

_Make letters burdened with affection, not perfection._  


~ overheard in a calligraphy class

*** *** ***

**Author's Note:**

> The movie mentioned is Peter Greenaway's "The Pillow Book" -- depressing and disturbing in parts, but beautiful, sensual, and highly, highly recommended. :)


End file.
